


when you were there

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, brief instance of homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack plays the Aces for the first time, and two things happen at once: </p><p>Jack, nervous and fumbling all the way through the warm up, right down to puck drop when he catches sight of that familiar blonde hair and something in him just <i>settles</i>, winds up playing the most beautiful hockey of his season to date. </p><p>And Kent ignores him completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you were there

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: everyone's an asshole and everything hurts at least a little. this is a little bit bleaker than i usually write JP i'm sorry i'm so sorry i'm not sorry at all. 
> 
> thank you so so so much to sparklyslug for all of the encouragement along the way. you're the best. ♥

The Falconers play the Aces for the first time at the end of a long, hard roadie where they got battered by the Sharks, slaughtered the Kings 4-0, and Jack netted the OT winner against the Schooners. 

It’s November, but you wouldn’t know it in Vegas, with a high of 16 C and the sun shining high in the sky. 

Jack plays the Aces for the first time, and two things happen at once: 

Jack, nervous and fumbling all the way through the warm up, right down to puck drop when he catches sight of that familiar blonde hair and something in him just _settles_ , winds up playing the most beautiful hockey of his season to date. 

And Kent ignores him completely.

.

The Aces win in the last five seconds of the third.

Kent doesn’t net the winner, that honor goes to his alternate, Wilson, but he does get the assist, and Jack watches them from the other side of the ice, watches Kent throw back his head and laugh, watches Wilson tear off his helmet to place a wet smack of a kiss against Kent’s cheek before pushing him away. 

Antipov, the giant Russian, comes right in and makes as if he’s going to lift Kent right up off the ice, and it must be an old joke, well-worn with practice, with the way Kent just rolls his eyes and lets it happen. 

There’s an ugly feeling tugging at Jack’s navel, and it’s the loss, sure, because God, does he hate to lose. Hates the blare of the horn when it’s not his team that got the shot in. Hates to face the long looks in the locker room, the what ifs and the what he should have done’s. 

But, well. It’s not _just_ that, exactly.

.

The day his parents checked Jack into rehab, he started up a running commentary, and all of it, all of it were things that he wished he could tell Kent.

He never wrote any of it down. Never picked up a phone and said a single word of it. It was just a buzz in the back of his mind, made up of all sorts of things, some inane, some not. Sometimes, on his worst days, it was things like “I’m sorry you had to find me the way you did, cold and pale and dying, god, I’m so fucking sorry.” 

But most days, it was shit like, “the kid in the hospital room next to me keeps playing that song you like, Party in the USA, on repeat and at first it made me think of you, and I smiled, but now I want to take his iPod and throw it out the fucking window.” 

It got quieter, as the years went on, and Jack filled up that space with other things: the sound of Shitty’s humming next door, the smell of paint in Lardo’s studio, the warmth of the kitchen when Bittle’s been baking. 

It’s not that he didn’t think of Kent. It’s that he thought of him less and less, and Jack didn’t -- he didn’t want to fight that. It was a relief, that maybe he didn’t have anything more to say to Kent. That maybe it was okay, that he just never had to face that. Face whatever rubble was left behind from what they used to be to each other. 

Joke’s on him, of course. 

Two months into the NHL and now, Jack has so much to say to Kent that he feels like he’s going to fucking burst from it. 

And Kent -- Kent won’t even meet Jack’s eyes anymore. 

So how’s that for irony, eh?

.

There’s a party, afterwards, because as Jack’s quickly finding out, there’s always a party afterwards. After the press, after the official party, the one where everyone goes in their suits and has a single beer for the cameras before taking off, splitting up, and then coming back together again for something a little less watched over.

It’s at a club on the Strip because someone told someone told someone that the Aces second-string goalie invited the Falconers along as consolation. Jack doesn’t know if any of that is actually true or not. Probably it is. That’s a pretty typical hockey player thing to do, throw out a chirp disguised as a good-hearted gesture, and open themselves up to a whole night’s worth of “oh, sorry, I’ll get the drink, you know. Since we kicked your asses and all.” 

Jack never goes to the second party. 

Tonight, though. Tonight, he does. 

It’s hard not to walk through the doors to this fancy Las Vegas club and imagine that this was what his life was supposed to be like, if he’d gone first in the draft. The suffocating push of people, the thrum of the music, and the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled drinks cutting through it all. Jack draws in a sharp breath, but the air doesn’t get any cleaner. 

God, he really would’ve died out here. The thought is sobering, and Jack raises up a hand, unbidden, to rub at a phantom pain his chest. 

“Hey, Zimmermann, you want something?” Ajax, Jack’s giant, good-natured Finnish linemate, nudges him in the arm, and gestures towards the bar. 

Jack freezes, for a second, and considers. He can drink, sometimes. One or two, in the right circumstances. It’s not the alcohol itself, exactly, it’s the situations it can create, the atmosphere around it. If Jack’s in control, if he knows where he is and who he’s with, then putting away a single beer doesn’t hurt anyone. 

This club is not that. 

Ajax nudges him again. “Relax, bro. A ginger ale, or something?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Jack says, trying not to look as hopelessly relieved as he feels. “That sounds good, thanks.” 

Ajax points towards the VIP section in the back. “That’s where we’re headed. I’ll meet you there, huh?” 

Jack nods, and makes his way through the sea of people through to the VIP section. There’s a crowd of people, not all of them hockey players, but it’s pretty clear that there’s a couple of layers to this, and a greater chunk of the outer layers are turned inwards, towards the Aces, hoping to be invited in further. 

In the back, Kent’s holding court with a bunch of his rookies and Wilson, surrounded by shot glasses and cans of Tecate. 

Kent’s got a bright red snapback on backwards, black v-neck slinging low when he sits forward to grab an unopened can of beer from the table. He looks completely at ease in a crowd, just like he always has. He looks like he belongs here. He does, Jack guesses. He must. 

When they were young, Kent always knew when Jack was watching him from across the room in a crowded party. He’d look up, and do something stupid, usually, like wink or salute. Sometimes, he’d just stare, heavy and intent, and those were the nights when they’d find themselves locked inside someone else’s bedroom at some middle of nowhere house party, with Jack’s hand over Kent’s mouth because he was fucking terrible at keeping it down. 

Kent used to joke that he had a lurking-Zimms-o-meter that let him know when Jack was nearby. ‘Course, Jack wasn’t exactly subtle about it. 

Tonight, Kent doesn’t look up. 

“Hey, you want to go say hi?” Ajax says, pressing a can of Seagram’s in Jack’s hand, and nodding in Kent’s direction. 

“Nah,” Jack says. “Let’s go find a seat.”

.

The party ebbs and flows around them. Falconers come and Falconers go. Even George shows up at one point, if only to drag a couple of rookies out by their ears, tossing Jack a rueful smile as she goes, and Jack shifts, uncomfortably, because yeah, maybe he should’ve done something about that.

Jack talks to his teammates, talks to a few of the Aces, and lets his can of Seagram’s go mostly untouched. The Aces don’t seem to like him all that much. He wonders if that’s in his head, or if Kent’s told them anything. He adds it to the pile of things he wants to ask, the commentary ever ticking. 

He watches Kent a little more than he should, and never gets so much as a single nod in return. 

Kent lurches by at around two, one of his own rookies leaning on him heavily, and it’s a shock to the system, to hear Kent’s voice go fond and amused in a way that hasn’t been directed at Jack in a long, long time, “come on, Fips, let’s go pour you into a cab, alright?” 

Five minutes pass, and then ten minutes pass, and still Kent doesn’t come back. 

Jack jumps to his feet, and murmurs an excuse to Ajax before throwing himself into the crowd, feeling his way to the doorway mainly by following the line of the bar and hoping for the best. 

He breathes clean air for the first time in a nearly empty parking lot, and catches sight of Kent just as he’s about to unlock the doors to a sleek black Audi. 

“Are you okay to drive?” Jack calls out, because it’s the first fucking thing to pop into his head, and he regrets it instantly for the way Kent turns around, both eyebrows raised, and just boggles. 

In the light of the single, bright fluorescent fixture, Kent is pale and clear-eyed and entirely sober. Jack hunches his shoulders, and braces for impact. 

“Yes, Mom,” Kent says. “I stopped drinking around the time I had to start shoving glasses of water at rookies.” 

Jack nods, and doesn’t say anything. 

“Thought you would’ve noticed,” Kent says. “What with the way you were staring.” 

Jack inhales sharply. “You didn’t look up.” 

Kent barks out a laugh. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t notice, Jack.” 

Jack doesn’t have anything to say to that, and the silence stretches between them, thick and awkward, but he doesn’t want this moment to end, hasn’t found the right opening yet after all these years. He’s spent so long not talking to Kent that he doesn’t know how to fucking start. 

Kent shakes his keys, and it rattles in the silence. “So can I go, or?” 

“Headed home?” 

Kent rolls his eyes, a little like he can’t believe he’s indulging this conversation. Jack kind of can’t blame him. “Yeah, Zimms, I’m headed home. There’s a cat and an unwatched episode of Scandal waiting for me.” 

Jack doesn’t know where Kent lives. It feels like a funny sort of imbalance; Kent’s been to the Haus twice, and sure, Jack doesn’t live there anymore, but it’s still the closest thing Jack’s ever had to a place that really felt like home. 

“Can I come?” Jack blurts out. 

Kent takes a step back, like Jack’s surprised him, for the first time all night, and Jack doesn’t fight the part of him that’s a little bit viciously satisfied at that. He looks up at Jack, considering, but there’s not a single inch of his face that gives him away. “Yeah, alright.”

.

Kent’s house is big; big and pretty far from any possible neighbors that might bother him, and surrounded by desert and foliage in every direction. He leaves his car in the winding driveway, and flicks the porch light off after them.

Jack stands in the foyer, at a loss. To the left, there’s a wide, open office with what looks like a half-organized trophy case, and it shouldn’t be a surprise, to see Kent’s Juniors jersey up on that wall, but it takes all the air out of his lungs, anyways. 

In the frame, it looks pristine and white, freshly laundered. Makes sense; Kent never could’ve hung it up as is, not with how Jack had last left it. And it’s stupid, of course. He can’t actually see his fingerprints left over on the white fabric but if Jack closes his eyes, he could probably give it his best shot. 

To the right, Kent is rummaging around in his kitchen, pulling down two glasses and filling them up with water. He pushes one in Jack’s direction without a word. 

Jack picks it up, but doesn’t take a sip, propping his hip against the kitchen counter. 

In his own home, Kent seems a lot smaller than he did in the club. Which isn’t right, exactly, because Kent sure hasn’t gotten any taller in the past six years, but it’s impossible to miss the muscle weight that wasn’t there when he was seventeen. Jack noticed last year, felt it beneath his fingertips when he shoved Kent up against the door to his Samwell bedroom. 

Jack shakes his head, clearing it out. “Nice place.” 

Kent’s lips curl upwards. “Yeah? You want the grand tour? Or were we still going to watch some TV?” 

Kent’s pushing him, but Jack -- Jack doesn’t even know which way he wants to be pushed, so fat lot of good that does either of them. “We could do that,” Jack says, noncommittal. 

Kent drags a hand over his face, and groans. “Didn’t take you for a Shonda Rhimes fan, Zimms.” 

“Is that an actress?” Jack asks, and Kent just snorts. Probably not, then. The name sounds familiar, though. Like it’s something Bittle might’ve mentioned one time. Jack usually tries to remember Bittle’s pop culture references. 

“I have a policy, you know,” Kent says, tracing patterns into the water that spilled over the sides of his cup. He’s still not looking at Jack. Hasn’t looked at him once outside of that brief minute in the parking lot. “Don’t apologize for something I know I might wind up doing again. So if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well fuck off now.” 

Jack sets the water glass down with a thunk. “That’s not what I’m here for.” 

Kent looks up, now, angles himself to face Jack. He still juts his chin out when he’s being stubborn in that same way he used to, like he’s always expecting a fight, first, and then whatever comes next, second. “This is a lot of weird build up for a booty call, Zimms.” 

Jack steps back, put off guard. “What -- I’m not -- ”

“Jack,” Kent says, suddenly deflating, as he reaches up to rub at the crease between his forehead. “You watched me all goddamn night. And you keep looking at me like you used to, right before we’d wind up fucking in a broom closet at the rink, or wherever. So you tell me what the fuck this is. Because I’m getting some real mixed signals, here.” 

“I don’t _know,_ ” Jack says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I don’t fucking know, Kenny, alright? Why did _you_ let me in?” 

Kent laughs, and it comes out just this side of helpless, high and desperate, the way Kent laughs when there’s no other option but to laugh. “You know what, Zimms. I have no fucking clue anymore. Your guess is as good as mine.” 

Somehow, right now, that’s enough. It’s enough, that they’re both so fucking clueless in the face of each other, that all they can do is stare across the distance between them in a poorly lit kitchen at 3 in the morning with no fucking clue how they got here. 

So, Jack makes up his mind, and closes the distance.

.

His eyes look for patterns in the ceiling, but come up wanting. They’re in a guest bedroom, on the first floor, and Jack can feel his skin, sweat-slick, sticking to the sheets.

It seemed important to Kent, that they come here, instead of going up the stairs to his bedroom. Jack could tell himself that it’s because it was closer, because they were in that much of a hurry, scrabbling at each other’s clothes the way they were, Jack tugging down the v in Kent’s shirt to sink his teeth into the tanned skin he’d been eyeing all night, but god knows it’d be bullshit. 

He can guess at the real reason. 

“D’you want me to stay the night?” Jack says, because it seems like the thing to ask. Kent rolls over next to him, and props himself up on one elbow. It’s too dark, though, and Jack can barely see his eyes at all. 

Kent sighs. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.” 

Jack nods, and then stutters out a quick okay, because it’s not like Kent could really see him do it. They get dressed in silence, weighted down, and Jack can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something wrong here. 

In the car, Kent turns on the radio, and swears at the GPS, but otherwise says nothing. Par for the course, for the night, and Jack thinks back, tries to remember if they’d said much of anything at all, in the middle of it, in the dark of that bedroom, with Kent’s legs wrapped around his waist, with Kent’s nails leaving scratches all down Jack’s back. 

Probably not. 

Jack winces, and stares out the window, watching the Vegas lights stream by. The skin on his back, and on his neck, is tender, and there’s a bruise on his ribs from where he got slammed into the boards during the game. Suddenly, he could sleep for a week. 

“God, the fucking roads are always so shitty this time of night,” Kent mutters next to him, making an u-turn to avoid an accident. 

“I could’ve stayed the night,” Jack repeats. 

“No, you couldn’t have,” Kent says, hands swift and sure on the wheel, and they’re pulling up to Jack’s hotel, now, so it figures that this is the point where they start talking. 

Jack looks away from the window. “Why not?” 

Kent lets out a little huff, and shakes his head. “Because I don’t want to expect things from you anymore, Jack.” 

Jack stares, a little, and Kent stares right back, with that stubborn face again, chin jutted out and all. His eyes are a little too bright, though, and with the light from the street, Jack can finally see the dark circles underneath them. 

“Thanks for the ride, Parse,” Jack says, and gets out of the car. The door is barely slammed shut behind him before Kent revs the engine, and takes off.

Jack looks up at the bright, glitzy lights of his hotel and feels very, very small.

.

_This shit is exhausting,_ and _I scored my first NHL goal and even though I already knew it, it was still a surprise when you weren’t right there_ , and _I was in the store, buying milk, and that stupid milkshake song that you made me dance to came on and I had to laugh because it’s still so fucking dumb after all these years,_ and _last week, one of the rookies made a joke, and used the word faggot, and the rest of them laughed and I wanted to throw up, and I don’t know how you do this, how do you do this every fucking day._

Jack faces his reflection in the mirror of his hotel room bathroom. He can hear Ajax snoring from the bedroom, where they’re bunking together, and it’s a miracle that Jack didn’t wake him on the way in. 

There’s a hickey high on his neck, just beneath his chin, and Jack’s got no clue how he’s going to get away with hiding it. 

He didn’t say any of the things he meant to say. 

But maybe this is just how they are, now. God knows there’s a phone somewhere at Jack’s parents house filled to the brim with voicemails from Kent. Long ones, short ones, some funny, some desperate, and a few where you could tell that Kent had been crying before he pressed call. 

They’re not ever going to meet in the middle, Jack realizes. They’re just going to keep passing each other by, and then keep walking, walking, until they’re walking as fast and as far as they can in the opposite direction. 

Jack presses his thumb down into the bruise on his neck, presses until it hurts, and sighs. 

_Hey Kenny,_ he thinks. _I can’t tell who looked more like shit tonight, you or me. Think we should get more sleep?_


End file.
